


The Loneliest Number

by lazarus_girl



Series: GGSM Prompts [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 06:06:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarus_girl/pseuds/lazarus_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Restless and struggling to adjust to life as a single girl in New York, Santana finds an unlikely ally in Rachel.</p><p>
  <i>“Sleeping in Rachel Berry’s bed is a temporary thing.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Loneliest Number

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rockinrye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rockinrye/gifts).



> [GGSM](http://trainwrecky.livejournal.com/1320.html?thread=57640#t57640) prompt fill for the lovely [@rockinrye](http://rockinrye.tumblr.com/). I hope I did your girls justice. Follows canon. Set somewhere between 4x16-4x18. My first foray into Pezberry, be kind! Thank you, as ever, to [@cargoes](http://cargoes.tumblr.com) for her beta skills and cheerleading.

***

 _"Was my life always to be like this? I wondered._  
 _Was it going to go, forever, in an instant, from sunshine to shadow?_  
 _From pandemonium to loneliness? From fierce anger to a fiercer kind of love?"_  
― Alan Bradley, _I Am Half-Sick of Shadows_.

***

Sleeping in Rachel Berry’s bed is a temporary thing. Once Santana’s pay check clears, she’s going get her own bed, and they’ll section her off a proper room, because she’s the official third housemate, _and_ paying the lion’s share of the rent. She wants her own damn space, and she’s sick and tired of living out of a suitcase, so that money can’t come quick enough. That’s the plan, and she’s sticking to it. She’s not going to let herself get comfortable. They’re friends, but there’s still a way to go before this won’t feel like a pity thing rather than a care thing.

It’s not an ideal arrangement, sharing a bed with her, mostly because she’s Rachel, and _the_ most restless sleeper Santana’s ever encountered, and has little to no grasp of the idea of personal space – there’s a line right down the middle of the bed that neither of them are meant to cross, but it happens, _frequently_ – but there’s only so many nights she could stand to sleep on that God-awful couch. The sheer ugliness of the thing was tolerable, but the lack of comfort wasn’t. When she did manage to find a position that was bearable and drift off, she’d be woken two seconds later. Santana doesn’t have the luxury of NYADA; late college starts and study breaks. She has a paying job, which brings money, but also double shifts, cocktail mixes to learn, and songs and routines to practice. All of which take concentration and skill, which are in seriously short supply when she’s running on black coffee alone, trying to work out the kinks in her neck and the stiffness in her back so she doesn’t walk into work hunched over like an 80-year-old man.

Oh, and then there’s the small issue of what or rather _who_ kept interrupting her beauty sleep during her couch nights.

Everyone else in this in this little _La Vie Bohème_ co-op seems to be getting it on. Loudly. Every. Damn. Night. Kurt, she can just about take, because it’s about time Lady Hummel got over Blaine, and secretly, she actually likes Adam. British is kind of fun, and he knows random shit about music and TV shows; ones that happened after the 1980s, so at least they have some common ground. Rachel though, that wasn’t so easy to ignore. The noises coming from her room pre Plastic Man’s departure were just obscene – and maybe a little bit hot – though it shouldn’t have come as a surprise to her really, Berry’s vocal about everything, so she was hardly going to be some shy retiring little schoolgirl when it comes to sex, even if she used to dress like one. She certainly doesn’t anymore.

This open plan business means they’ve seen more of each other than they’d like. They have rules of course, chief one being they have to announce themselves at all times, but everything else is pretty lax and they’ve just learned to deal with it. She gets a perverse kick out of flashing her boobs at Kurt, just because he looks horrified every time, and it’s hilarious, just as hilarious as the shade of red he turns whenever she happens to catch a glimpse of his junk. However, where Brody was concerned, she liked to keep herself covered because she could never figure out where he sat on Sketchy Boy Scale, beyond the fact he was definitely well past the zero threat that Kurt poses, and that she felt vaguely uncomfortable at his leering. One of many warning bells that rang in her head continuously and no one else seemed to hear.

In something of a common theme, it’s Rachel sauntering around the loft half naked in her underwear or skirts that are even more like belts than her own that’s still proving difficult to get over. Santana’s seen more of Rachel’s surprisingly toned body (and freakishly long legs that have no right being on a person that small) than her own these last few months. New York looks really good on her. Berry got hot. Really hot, and she maybe, might’ve, been a little bit turned on listening to her and Brody have sex. There’s just something about her voice: the desperation, the hitched breaths, the sensuality of it that gets Santana all worked up – in a different way to how Brittany does, which is confusing and weird on its own, even before you added in the fact it’s Rachel. She endured it for a while, but she’s only human, and it quickly got to the stage where she ended up getting off to the sound of it; one hand in her sleep shorts, fingers circling her clit, aching for release, and the other clamped over her mouth to deaden the sound of her own moaning. Knowing Rachel was the reason why doesn't feel nearly as weird anymore, but she’d be mortified if anyone found out.

She’s not proud of it, not at all. The guilt is starting to weigh on her heavily, especially now she’s off the couch, and Rachel’s proving to be unusually kind and accommodating about the whole thing. She doesn’t even freak out when Santana cuddles her in the night by accident or they wake up to find that they’re still entangled. The loft is Arctic right now, and Rachel is really, really warm, like a tiny human radiator, and Santana just really misses being held sometimes – times when that stupid girlfriend pillow Kurt bought for her isn’t nearly enough and she misses Brittany like hell, which is, a lot.

If only that cute, sappy side of having a girlfriend was all Santana missed. It’s not. She really, _really_ misses sex to the point that it physically hurts and she’s seriously contemplating if it’s possible to die as a direct result of sexual frustration. Sometimes one-on-one time with her left hand just doesn’t hit the spot. Literally. She’s good at it, she knows her body, and she _definitely_ knows what works for her and what doesn’t, but it’s different when someone else is pulling the strings and there’s an element of surprise. It sounds slutty, she’s well aware to admit things like that, and at certain times, working in a bar full of hot women like Roxy (blonde; a real New Yorker, legs for days and a seriously good rack) and Tori (redhead; Southern belle with a cute accident and the hottest ass she’s ever seen) is an occupational hazard. She’s gotten hit on, of course, mostly by dudes drunk off their asses, because working in a bar means she actually has _zero_ social life, and on the rare occasions she actually goes out, it’s to Callbacks with Kurt and Rachel, which seems devoid of anything but super straight girls and gay boys.

Drunken make-out sessions and experimental fumbles are good for her ego, but they’re really bad for her soul and even worse for her heart. Contradictory, but that’s life. To err is human and all that crap. Not so long ago, she wouldn’t have cared, because sex is sex, and she thought hell would freeze over before she’d ever turn it down. Well, it’s pretty fucking frosty in New York right now, all because a long time ago, some sweet, beautiful girl told her that it was better with feelings. What Brittany didn’t tell her though, was how the hell she’d get along without them.

Badly. That’s how.

The kind of bad that leaves Santana actually planning time to rub one out – OK, several – every few days while Rachel’s holed up in the bathroom, showering and going through her nightly beauty regime, and she’s dragged herself through a bunch of day shifts on the bounce. She’s stopped thinking about who else has been in this bed and what they’ve done; it just puts her off, focussing instead on how much time she’s got and what she can do with it. Even though that routine gives her close to an hour and a half sometimes – so she still gets that delicious, satisfying slow burn build in her belly that’s a pretty close substitute for fucking– there’s still guilt attached, because she knows Rachel will probably disapprove – and she’s terrified of being walked in on.

It was hot, when she and Brittany were together and she couldn’t wait so she’d start without her and then Brittany would watch and then finish her off, but the idea of Rachel witnessing her as she is now, well, it freaks her out. She’s vulnerable, eyes closed and head thrown back; wearing nothing but a t-shirt and some underwear that’s ruined beyond all recognition, fingers buried to the hilt and hips grinding shamelessly down on them. The fact that tonight’s material – that got her embarrassingly wet to begin with – consists solely of the very clear image she has of Rachel in the shower, all soaped up, constructed from half glimpses and a very vivid imagination, freaks her even more.

She sighs, lip caught between her teeth, pushing away her anxiety, knowing the clock is ticking. Rachel will be back soon, all smiles, wanting to make popcorn and marshmallow hot chocolate, and watch this week’s _I Love Lucy_ episodes of choice curled up on the couch until Kurt gets in from his dinner date with Adam and all three of them dissect the shit out of it like he’s an anthropological study. The wrong kind of frustration growing in Santana now because she just _can’t_ get there. The good Catholic girl who nervously touched herself in the dark, crushed by the fear of sinning is long gone, but she still can’t get used to fantasising about other girls and not feeling the same kind of guilt.

“Oh … Santana … I’m sorry.”

Rachel’s there. Rachel’s _there_. She freezes.

For what feels like an eternity, neither of them says anything. All she can hear is her shaky breaths, in and out, in and out. All she can feel is her heart ramming in her chest, reminding her that this isn’t a dream and she’s very much awake. Not knowing what else to do, she just keeps her eyes closed and waits. For what, she’s not sure. She doesn’t have many options right now, and all those options include her being humiliated.

“I’ll just … yes … ” Rachel says, after a moment, stumbling over every word, so obviously embarrassed that Santana can practically feel how deeply Rachel’s blushing, “let you get … OK,” she adds, before skittering quickly away.

Santana lets out a long breath, pushing her hair off her face with the only hand she dares to move, staring up at the ceiling.

 _Fuck_.

Her being a lesbian has never been an issue with Rachel. She never wanted it to be an issue. She never wanted Rachel to be uncomfortable or nervous or wary or any of that, because really, she’s not in love with everyone she looks at and even if she finds Rachel attractive, it doesn’t mean she’ll do anything about it. She has some scruples. Now it’s just going to be weird. Rachel will want talk about it and rationalise it and make her feel better and she’s in no mood for it. She’s in the mood for another ten minutes because this is just the _worst_ and she doesn’t even get the reward of post-orgasmic bliss to justify it. She pulls up her sweats, puts her sneakers back on – there’s no way she’s walking around this loft in bare feet; God knows what she’d catch – wrapped in one of Brittany’s old sweatshirts for warmth, and tries to make herself look presentable again, studying herself in the full-length mirror opposite Rachel’s bed. She has tell-tale sex hair, tell-tale sex everything. It’s bad. It’s really bad. It’s chain smoke on the escapement until everyone gets collective amnesia bad. She’ll never live this down. Ever.

Rachel’s doing _something_ in the kitchen, and she’s doing it twice as loud for Santana’s benefit. Every cupboard door and drawer slamming shut harder than necessary. Maybe she’s not being kind and giving her space, maybe she’s just freaked, pissed or weirded out or all of the above. Maybe Rachel’s so mad, they’ll throw her out when Kurt gets in and she’ll be on the street again for the night just like after the Brody incident. Only this time, word will get around and British won’t swing by to see Kurt, and end up offering her a bed for the night instead. Next morning, there will be no flurry of apologetic phone calls and texts, a bacon sandwich (real, actual bacon not that weird vegan stuff that she can’t force herself to like) and a cup of tea to cheer her up. Oh no, this time, Santana Lopez will have no knight in shining armour, she’ll be all on her own, freezing her ass off on some park bench or in lockup downtown because she got busted by the cops.

She hovers for a ridiculously long time before deciding to venture out. The sooner Santana shuts down whatever Rachel has to say about what she’s just witnessed, the quicker they can all move on. She just needs to get over herself. It’s no big deal. The second she looks at Rachel sat Indian style on the couch, hugging a cushion while an old episode of _Project Runway_ comes blaring from the TV, she knows it’s not going to be quick and it’s a huge deal. Rachel freezes, straightening up; looking guilty enough for the both of them.

“Beer?” Santana asks, raking a hand through her hair as she walks through to the kitchen, trying to play it cool, even though the speed her heart’s going reminds her she’s the opposite.

To her surprise, Rachel turns, arm resting over the back of the couch, and answers with a quick “Yes.”

They don’t make eye contact.

Rachel, by her own admission loathes beer because of the taste, and after the complete mess that was their high school ‘Trainwreck Extravaganza’ party, wine coolers bring them all out in hives – Santana’s been known to retch at the sight of those innocent looking little bottles. Rachel’s too much of a lightweight for hard liquor, so actual wine is all that’s left. There’s some of Rachel’s favourite red already open – some vegan thing she can’t begin to pronounce – so she could just have more, but Santana doesn’t like to question it. Maybe she’s doing it out of some warped sense of sisterly solidarity or she’s just afraid of what Santana might do if she says no.

To her shame, Santana chugs almost half her beer down in one go while she slams Rachel’s on the corner of the counter to open it – another Coyote girl skill, that and newfound ambidextrousness from running down the bar and streaming Patron into waiting shot glasses. Rachel looks almost impressed. Santana offers the bottle with a dramatic flourish, expecting her to laugh, but there’s nothing.

“Thanks,” Rachel says, in that same, weird, cautious voice as before, like she’s just been offered a loaded gun rather than a beer.

“It’s cool,” Santana shrugs, flopping down on to the couch, and turning her attention to the screen and away from the scrutiny of Rachel’s gaze.

She’s dying to say something. Santana can practically hear the cogs whirring.

“Whatever you have to say, just say it,” she sighs, sipping on her drink, barely glancing away from the screen. “There’s no way this isn’t going to be supremely embarrassing so we might as well stop delaying the inevitable, Berry.”

“Well,” Rachel begins, shuffling closer, and Santana moves instinctively in the opposite direction, because it feels like she’s being cornered. Literally. “I can’t say I’m that surprised, you’re a sexual being, Santana.”

“Oh Jesus _fucking_ Christ!”

Santana gapes, slamming her bottle down on the coffee table. Because _really?_ Of all the things to say, Rachel comes out with that ridiculous pseudo psychological bullshit? Wow. The second the word ‘Sapphic’ comes out of Rachel’s mouth, she’s gone. Third official housemate or not. Shock she can take, and disapproval she can tolerate, but empathy? Hell no.

“Santana,” Rachel implores, holding her hands up in defence. “I get it OK. I know you have this opinion of me as some sort of … ” she tails off as she searches for the right words. “Well, that I’m inexperienced, and compared to you that’s obviously possible –”

Santana’s eyes narrow. “Are you just going to insult me or?”

“Please. Just let me finish.”

Santana motions for her to continue, arms crossing over her herself, channelling all her anger into a long breath out, determined not to lose her temper. Rachel won’t get the satisfaction.

“I just mean, that well, everyone has wants, and needs and desires and it’s OK to feel like that. It’s natural. It’s healthy,” Rachel leans across and touches Santana’s forearm gently. “There’s no need to be embarrassed, really.”

“I’m not embarrassed!” Santana yells, offended, shirking Rachel’s contact. “Don’t sit there and pretend you didn’t run out of the room so fast your head spun!”

“It’s called shock, Santana. I don’t care, OK? Contrary to popular belief, I know that masturbation isn’t something only engaged in by boys. I’m not about to be the person to make you feel guilty for that.”

“Oh God, can you not?” Santana makes a face, disgusted.

This is weird. This is weirder than talking about sex with her mother.

“We’re sexually active. We live in a loft with no doors and no internal walls. Sound _travels_.”

Santana just glares, because yes, it certainly does. She does it long enough for Rachel to look away, glowing with embarrassment and it feels like a victory.

“You’ve been in a relationship, an intimate relationship. You need to fill that void in your life now things with Brittany have –”

“Ended,” Santana interjects. “You can say it. I won’t start crying. Thanks for the reminder by the way, like I needed it,” she snorts, and a chuckle escapes.

This wouldn’t feel half as pathetic if Rachel had walked in on her and Brittany screwing each other. In fact, it’d be fantastic, because Santana could be smug and throw it in her face, exactly like Rachel used to do with Plastic Man. This just makes her look weak and needy. Santana _hates_ looking weak and needy.

“I didn’t intend to,” Rachel looks genuinely apologetic and it’s sort of unnerving. “There are lots of things you miss when you break up with people. Especially ones as important to you as Brittany.”

Santana snatches up her beer, draining it. “And you can stop right there. I'm not talking about her. Ever,” she continues, getting up and heading for the fridge again before Rachel can say anything else. “My feelings are mine to deal with. Right?” she calls, pointing for emphasis before opening another beer.

Rachel nods. Sheepish. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Me too,” Santana sighs heavily, hearing the bitterness laced in her voice and wondering what the hell she means. “I’m going to bed,” she announces, louder than necessary, annoyed that she can’t embellish her anger further by slamming a door because there _aren’t_ any.

If this carries on, she’ll have to take up kickboxing or yoga or go see a fucking therapist, because she’s going to combust.

“Goodnight, Santana,” Rachel calls, softly, and Santana feels like crying.

Too wired to sleep, she just paces, drinking and watching the street below, trying to make out if any of the people wandering around are Kurt, because it’s late and she _might_ be getting a little twitchy about it. Equally worrying is the fact it’s been a while since Rachel’s made any kind of noise, and Santana’s debating going back out to see if she’s OK, and hasn’t succumbed to alcoholic poisoning or choked on her own vomit or something.

God, Santana hates that couch now even more than she did before. It’s the root cause of all her downfall, and if Rachel wasn’t sitting on it, she’d set light to the damn thing and be done. OK, so it’d get her endless bitching from Rachel and Kurt both, and a mind-numbingly boring trip to IKEA to buy another, but at least it’d be free of all the negative associations. Clean slate.

At last, to her relief, the channel switches – it sounds like E! because Kim Kardashian is whining about something – so Santana talks herself out of another bonding moment with Rachel, and does the only thing that’s left open to her. Sleep. She downs the dregs of her beer, slamming the empty bottle down on Rachel’s nightstand in disgust. Practically face planting on the bed, she forces herself to change into her pyjamas, so she doesn’t inadvertently add flashing to this evening’s catalogue of embarrassment, and gets under the covers. When she imagined New York; the city that never sleeps, land of opportunity that’s so good they named it twice, she didn’t imagine she’d be in bed by two in the morning on a Saturday. So much for an exciting new beginning. It’s more of the same shit she had in Lima; only she hasn’t got Brittany to make her evenings infinitely more entertaining. Fuck GPA’s. Fuck that stupid no good school. Fuck Lima. Fuck Rachel Berry and her sophist crap about ‘needs and desires.’ Fuck it all.

She wakes up every so often, shaken by loud whispering, snatches of conversations that start with the words “Adam” or “Brody.” Occasionally, she thinks she hears her own name and gets paranoid over what they’re discussing. She wants to march out there and bitch at them, but she doesn’t have the energy. Later, much later, her sleep is interrupted by a shriek of laughter from Kurt or a belting note from Rachel as she sings along to whatever’s playing. The fog of sleep never lifts enough for Santana to do anything but struggle to put together that it’s Barbra, Whitney or Celine, and remind herself to get Rachel some iTunes credit and introduce her to some albums from the last decade. They’re getting drunk without her. Her roommates are loud, rude, inconsiderate _and_ selfish, and she wishes she’d taken up her father’s offer of renting her a place so he could expand his property portfolio. If she had, she wouldn’t be stuck the middle of this fucking nightmare. She’d probably be somewhere nice in Manhattan, in a place that has doors that lock, that’s been decorated, fumigated, with working heating where she can use as much hot water as she wants. Oh, and she’d have a king size bed all to herself with Egyptian cotton sheets.

She groans into her definitely _not_ Egyptian cotton pillow, sandwiching Rachel’s over her ears to muffle the noise. If she were significantly more drunk, she’d go out there and sing with them, but she’s miserable and lonely and tired, and she’s in no mood for their particular brand of happy. There isn’t enough alcohol in the world for that.

With a sigh, she rolls over, towards Rachel’s side of the bed, and away from the glow of the pink neon sign from the bar across the street. It’s buzzing and flickering, tempting her out, making her contemplate getting dressed and going out to get wasted in different company. If she could get a decent lay out of it, well, all the better, because she doesn’t dare touch herself in this bed again. Frustrated, she throws the pillow back where it was, curling herself up, foetal, singing Adele to herself quietly as a makeshift lullaby until she falls asleep.

“Santana, are you awake?” Rachel calls, soft.

Somewhere between awake and asleep, she answers with a gruff “No,” burying her face in her pillow.

“Sorry if I woke you,” Rachel continues, gentle and sincere. The bed dips under her weight as she climbs on to it.

“S’OK,” Santana murmurs, barely able to open her eyes.

She yawns and forces herself to focus, because it feels like Rachel’s going want to talk again, even if she’s in no mood to listen. Santana’s immediate thought is to whine at her, because Rachel’s letting out all the warmth she’s built up, but she’s too tired.

“I didn’t tell Kurt.”

The light across the street surges when Rachel speaks, casting her in pink light. Briefly, it crosses Santana’s mind how right Brittany was when she said Rachel was pretty once, but she dismisses it. Everyone looks better when you’re even just a little drunk, because the edges of the world get softer.

Rachel sounds different, but Santana can’t quite place why. She’s not slurring her words exactly, but even in this state, Santana can tell she’s not entirely sober either. Tipsy, she guesses, even though she hates that word, because it sounds ridiculous and childish. It takes a few long seconds for what Rachel means to click in her head, and then it all falls back into place. The same mix of guilt and shame settles in Santana’s gut, and she wishes it away.

She turns on to her side, facing Rachel before she speaks again. “Thanks.”

Santana feels like she should say more, maybe apologise, but if Rachel’s not used to her short-tempered bitchiness now they’re living in each other’s pockets, she never will be. Instead, she closes her eyes and tries to go back to sleep, waiting for the inevitable duvet wrestling to begin once Rachel’s settled herself. She could set her watch by it. If she wore one.

“You’re lonely aren’t you, without her?”

Santana’s eyes snap open, and she waits for the light to come again, not quite able to see. When it reveals Rachel, she’s staring up at the ceiling. Santana resists the massive urge she has to say something sarcastic, and decides to let the truth out instead.

“Yeah. I miss her. A lot,” her voice is small, her words clipped and tight, like they’re clawing their way out of her throat inch by inch. Rachel just nods sadly in the darkness, sighing. “What?”

“Nothing,” Rachel replies, defensive, pulling the bedclothes as she turns away.

“What is it, Berry? Spit it out. Some of us are trying to sleep here … and maybe not freeze to death because they’re with a fricken duvet hog!”

The light comes again, flickering more than usual, and she hates that they don’t have any curtains to block it out.

“I … I’m lonely too.”

It’s the quietest she’s ever heard Rachel speak. At first, Santana isn’t sure what to say, she’s just not good at this stuff. This is Brittany’s area. She’d know how to comfort Rachel; to make it hurt a little less. Santana wouldn’t wish this horrible gnawing feeling on anyone. For something that leaves her so utterly empty, Santana feels weighed down by it most of the time; her body twice as heavy.

She sighs, uncomfortable when she hears Rachel sniff, obviously holding back tears.

“Hey, come on, you’ll get through it,” Santana shuffles closer to Rachel tentatively. “Plastic Man isn’t worth your tears. Trust me,” she continues, leaning over Rachel to check she’s OK, squeezing Rachel’s shoulder in a way she hopes is comforting.

Rachel turns, tilting her head up, and suddenly their lips are touching. Rachel _fucking_ Berry is kissing her. She pulls away, putting as much space between her and Rachel as she can, scrambling over the covers.

She clutches her chest, mouth agape, utterly confused. “What the hell?!”

“I just … I don’t … I’m sorry!” Rachel’s rambling, tripping over her words, hands flailing all over the place as she struggles to articulate herself. She’s just as shocked as Santana is.

“It’s alright. It’s cool,” Santana reassures, crawling back to Rachel because she looks like she’s going to hyperventilate or faint or something equally dramatic. “Just a kiss. No one died right?”

On the inside, Santana’s freaking out, but tries not to show it, because it’s _Rachel_. After Quinn and the wedding she’s beginning to wonder if she’s everyone’s go-to for their little lesbian experience. She’s not sure how to feel, because it’s the first kiss she’s had in weeks, and it was kind of nice, brief, but nice. No, it doesn’t mean anything. It’s like when Rachel kissed Blaine during spin the bottle. People make too much of nothing at all.

Except, well, Rachel’s looking at her differently and biting on her lip, and that drives her nuts when any girl on the planet does that, no matter who they are. She suddenly really wants to kiss Rachel again, and just go with it. Fuck what happens, fuck what it all means because they’re both as miserable as each other, and if she can make Rachel feel just a little better, boost her confidence, and take the sting of Brody’s shitty treatment away for a while, then why not? Rachel’s a pretty girl, it could be fun.

Rachel seems to have the same idea. She meets Santana in the middle of the bed, leaning up, expectant, but there’s not another kiss, there are words – perhaps the ones Rachel was struggling for moments ago – low and breathy right in Santana’s ear.

“I have needs too, Santana. I want …”

 _Oh_. If that’s not the cast iron, greenest of green lights, Santana doesn’t know what is. It’s the ‘I want’ that gets her, it makes something surge, low in her belly, and her entire body snaps to attention; some invisible switch thrown.

“What do you want?” there’s just enough teasing in Santana’s voice for the question to be sexy rather than coy. She leans closer, close enough to kiss, but not quite, hands resting on Rachel’s thighs.

Whatever the lady wants, the lady gets. Whatever people say about her, they’ll never be left unsatisfied.

Rachel swallows so hard Santana hears it. She doesn’t really need to push her like this, but she’s curious, given what’s happened tonight, whether Rachel will bend – just give in and let go, just once – or break and run a mile.

There's no answer. Not the verbal kind, anyway. Rachel lurches forward, pressing a rough kiss to Santana’s lips, hands threading into her hair. When the momentum throws her back, and Santana finds herself suddenly pinned at the foot of the bed, Rachel straddling her, she lets out a squeak of surprise. Ordinarily, she’d flip things right off the bat. She’s not about to give Rachel _fucking_ Berry all the control, but she’s lacking in willpower currently, and that has a lot to do with the fact she has a warm, girl-shaped body wrapped around her right now, and it’s been too damn long since that happened.

They’re kissing in this completely filthy way, all teeth and tongue. She can taste that red wine and something else she can’t place, but she wants more. It’s embarrassingly sloppy, and Santana’s hands are grasping greedily at the back of Rachel’s ridiculous silky pyjama top in a way that says more about her weeks of sex deprivation than it does about her prowess, but she couldn’t care less. This is hot, and about twenty thousand times better than she imagined. There’s a hunger, a desperation and a greed about Rachel that she never expected, and it's short-circuiting her brain. First surprise: Rachel Berry is a _really_ good kisser. Santana’s witnessed enough disgusting PDA to prove this in theory, of course, but experiencing it is quite different. It’s sucking the breath right out of her in the best of ways.

Rachel moans when Santana’s hands skim downwards, fingertips dipping into Rachel’s shorts, and cupping her ass – it’s just as firm and perky as she thought it would be – pressing their bodies closer together. Santana presses her thigh between Rachel’s legs, and the response is reward enough. It’s a definite gasp; one that Santana swallows down, smug, dotting kisses along Rachel's jawline when she turns her head away. Rachel’s wet, really wet, and Santana’s seriously considering pushing Rachel on to her back, tossing those little shorts aside, and showing her what a decent orgasm really feels like.

She seems to get the message, still grinding her hips down when Santana moves her hands away, and _yeah_ this is working. This is working _really_ well. Santana winds an arm around Rachel’s waist; hand settling in the small of her back, and just like Santana knew she would, Rachel’s back arches against it. Santana’s tongue darts out, wetting her lips, and she just watches, drinking in the sight, angling her thigh just so, and pushing up. She’s heard a lot of things coming from this room during those nights on the couch, but that noise that falls from Rachel’s lips – low and strangled – from the very depths of her; it’s like lighting touch paper, and now it’s Santana that wants. She wants to give Rachel more, to watch as she registers every slight touch, every kiss, every tiny moment. To watch the very second Rachel Berry’s mind implodes because her horizon just got infinitely expanded.

When Rachel’s mouth drifts to her neck, trailing experimental kisses, teeth nipping every so often, before soothing the spot with an indelicate sweep of tongue, Santana unexpectedly moans. It seems her horizons still have room to stretch a little too. OK so Rachel doesn’t exactly know what do with her hands, because one of them is still tangled in Santana’s hair, twisting just enough to be hot, while the other rests on her stomach, mostly for leverage, not really doing anything because Rachel probably doesn’t dare, but the contact is nice, and she doesn’t want to kill the mood. Rachel plays innocent, but she knows more than she lets on. The brief flash of a smile from her says she knows exactly what she’s doing. Rachel’s starting to suck on her skin so hard she’s going to leave her with a hickey the size of Alaska, but as far as Santana’s concerned, she can keep doing it, because it feels good. Santana’s eyes flutter closed, and she hisses out appreciation.

Who knew Rachel Berry could be such a little tease?

“Santana,” Rachel begins, quietly, when those kisses all too quickly drift to nothing.

Santana puffs out a breath, eyes opening again, frustrated, because she just _knew_ Rachel couldn’t get by without talking through some of this. She wants to shut it down immediately because things were just starting to kick into a different gear and talking throws her well and truly off her game. The throbbing that’s been building nicely between her legs is just starting to get the wrong side of comfortable, and it needs attending to sooner rather than later.

“If I wanted to properly apologise for earlier, what could I do?”

Santana chuckles, because Rachel sounds so ridiculously sweet and earnest; so eager to please, that she has to fight to keep from saying something she’ll regret.

She’s not a total bitch, and she certainly doesn’t want this little impromptu make-out session to grind to a halt either, so it’s in her interest – and Rachel’s too – to be nice. OK, so she might end the evening getting herself off in the bathroom, but at least she’ll have something to work with that isn’t totally the fruit of her imagination. Small victories.

“Stop talking and keep kissing,” she replies, simply, pulling Rachel down for another kiss.

This time, Rachel hesitates, pulling back at the last moment, and Santana tries not to roll her eyes.

“But,” Rachel stalls, searching for the right words.

It’s a little late for the gay panic to kick in, but well, it happens. It used to happen to her. If Rachel wants an out, then she’s got it. That’s not her thing. Sex is only fun when both people get something out of it. She’s never pushed anyone into something they didn’t want, and she’s not about to start now. Needs or no needs. Santana drops her hand away, and tries to untangle herself from Rachel; half sitting up, but there’s a firm hand on her chest, pushing her back down again.

“You need more than that. It’s not enough for you. I can tell.”

The room is bathed in neon again. Seeing the softness in Rachel’s eyes – not pity, but something like it – makes Santana feel weird.

She sighs, tilting her head, because _fuck_ that wasn’t where she thought this was going. It’s the sweetest thing she’s heard in while, and it makes her soften a little. “This is nice, this is more than nice, and a really good way to say sorry.”

Rachel will nod, and then they’ll go back to getting their mack on, with a little hip action to go with it, and that’s cool with her. Except, that’s not what happens. Rachel’s hand is skimming slowly down Santana’s stomach, coming to a stop at the tie on her shorts. The part of Santana’s brain that’s been telling her how very _wrong_ this all is, gets deafeningly loud.

“Show me a better way,” a slight smile tugs at the corner of Rachel’s mouth when she adds, “for future reference.”

Before Santana can anything else, Rachel’s pulling down her shorts and tossing them into the dark, not caring where they land.

What is it they say? Always the quiet ones. She swallows hard, hoping to God her eyes didn’t go as wide as she thought they did. Santana’s supposed to be the one with all the smooth talk and the experience. She’s the serial flirt, the seducer, the guaranteed good-time girl, and the top-drawer lay. She’s not supposed to get flustered by words like that or girls like Rachel, but she is. She is because she’s basically been offered whatever she wants on a platter. Rachel’s offering herself, without hesitation, and it’s the last thing Santana ever expected would happen when she pitched up here, with nothing but a trolley case and the vague promise of a future.

“You don’t have to,” Santana says, quietly, when she sees a flicker of nervousness settle on Rachel’s features when she turns back to look at her.

“I just want to make you feel better …” there’s a nervous tremble to Rachel’s voice, like stripping away that little bit of clothing has taken some of her confidence. “I only know what works for me and …” Rachel tails off, and Santana can practically feel the embarrassment radiating off her in waves.

If anyone were keeping score this evening, now they’re just about equal.

“Stop thinking so much.” Rachel opens her mouth to reply, but Santana presses a finger to her lips to stop her. “Relax.”

She moves her hand way, and Rachel nods, easily coaxed down to lie next to her with slow deliberate kisses. Rachel’s fingertips trace vague patterns on Santana’s hip, skating closer to the inside of her thigh. Santana resists the urge to grab Rachel’s hand and practically shove it between her legs, because that’s what she needs right now; good and hard pressure on her clit, and fingers curling up inside of her, as deep as they can go, but she’s determined to draw this out, pace herself, for her own sake as well as Rachel’s. It’d just be a waste, and who knows when this will happen again? So, she takes Rachel’s hand, sliding it down her stomach, and in between her legs, settling over hot, slick skin. Santana purses her lips closed, supressing a groan, and Rachel makes a surprised little noise in reply. Santana knows why, it’s because she’s so soft, and smooth, and wet and knowing you at least had a little – OK a lot – to do with making that happen is a strange, intoxicating feeling. They just move like that for a while, in long, slow strokes, and she guides Rachel where to touch lighter and heavier; circling her clit every so often and settling into a rhythm that Santana’s hips rise to chase as they kiss haphazardly.

Eventually, Santana lets go, and it’s all on Rachel. She panics, and seems to freeze for a moment when she realises, but then she starts to move again, circling Santana’s clit slow and lazy. There’s barely any pressure, but God, it’s good. So different to how Santana usually touches herself, and how it’s been with other girls; still making her gasp as if it was twice the speed.

“Does that feel good?” Rachel asks, cautiously.

“Yeah … but you can go harder if you want…”

Rachel’s watching her intently, serious and concentrated and so determined to do this right that it’s kind of adorable. She follows Santana’s direction, like the good little ingénue-in-waiting that she is, pressing harder. Santana can barely keep still. One hand closes in a fist around the duvet, and the other cups the back of Rachel’s head, pulling her in for a hard, greedy kiss.

“Yeah … Yeah …” Santana hears herself say, voice husky and rough, like it’s not her own anymore. “Just like that.”

Rachel lets out a breathy giggle, sounding incredibly pleased with herself. Santana’s hand drifts down between Rachel’s legs, and she lets out a low moan, caught off-guard, and now it’s Santana’s turn for conceit. She keeps things gentle, doing little more than rubbing Rachel over her shorts, but from the look on her face, and the way her hips are rolling toward Santana’s hand, it’s the right kind of friction.

“Oh …” is all that Rachel ‘Queen of Long Words’ Berry can muster, and Santana smiles into their next kiss, and she watches the realisation hit her. It’s going to be good for both of them.

They’re back in that greedy, hungry place, kissing hard and deep, trying to keep up with the impossible rhythm they’ve set.

“Inside,” Santana manages, desperate; lungs aching for air, lips feeling utterly bruised. She needs more, but she daren’t admit that she needs anything.

“Are you –”

Santana cuts Rachel off with a harsh, needy “yes,” unconsciously spreading her legs in anticipation. “Go slow,” she amends, because she can tell that Rachel’s thinking again. The moment Rachel’s brave enough to press inside of of her – not very far, and only a single finger – Santana stops moving, hand stilling against Rachel, groaning out of sheer relief. It’s embarrassing how close she is, given how long she can usually hold out, but she’s not about to let her know that.

“It feels … you feel …” Rachel murmurs, looking down at where her hand is, watching with fascination as she moves in and out, with careful, almost teasing strokes.

Santana’s not sure how that sentence ends. Amazing? Ridiculously fucking hot? Any and all of the above? Possibly.

“More … You can do more …” Santana says, trying to focus on her breathing, levelling it out when all she wants to do is take bigger, faster gulps of air, rocking hard against Rachel’s fingers, relishing the beginning of fullness when the second finger slides in next to the other, plunging in and out of her with a steadier, focussed rhythm. “Harder.”

‘Good girl’ is all Santana can think, vaguely, the praise staying on the very tip of her tongue, perilously close to being spoken. Santana’s just about to give her last instruction – demand, she’s demanding really – because she’s so very nearly there, teetering on the edge, when she’s taken by surprise. Rachel’s thumb swipes at her clit, deliberately as she draws her fingers all the way out and all the way back in, and Santana’s just _gone_ , announced with a throaty moan and a stream of curse words. Her body arcs up off the bed, eyes squeezed tight shut. Her heart pounding loud and fast in her ears, her whole body is shaken by the force of it; tensing and relaxing around Rachel’s fingers, praying to God and several saints that Rachel’s smart enough to know what to do next, because she can’t even remember her own damn name. Rachel does know, it seems, slowing her movements and thank God, because Santana’s just too sensitive right now.

They lie there in silence for what feels like a really long time, and she can just tell that Rachel’s itching to reel off one of her rambles about what an important, special moment they’ve shared, and Santana steels herself, waiting for it, only just registering the neon as it bleeds in again, briefly illuminating the room.

“Oh wow …” Rachel says, hushed, looking at her wondrously, like she can’t believe what’s happened.

Two words. Santana smirks. After all that, she’s got just two words.

It takes all the strength she has to speak and even more to turn to look at Rachel. “Yeah. You can have that one. _Fuck_ …”

“That was educational …” Rachel declares, conversationally, like they’re on some school field trip, and Santana just laughs at how absurd it’s all become.

“Well, in the interests of education,” Santana begins, recovered enough to move. “Would you like some more lessons?”

It’s cheesy as all hell, and she’d publicly deny any knowledge everything she’s said, but Rachel just laps it up, and there’s a mischievous glint in her eye when she nods her answer. Then, Santana’s up on her knees, taking off her top in one smooth motion, and she hears Rachel make some sort of noise in response. Even though everyone thinks that Rachel’s the one who performs twenty-four-seven, well, being a Coyote has shown her the value of it in more ways than one. Rachel’s eyes go wider, and her tongue peeps out to moisten her lips.

“Like what you see, Berry?” It's her special voice, the one that's a touch huskier than her normal speaking voice, reserved for moments like this.

The look on Rachel’s face is priceless, and she just nods, awestruck, eyes raking up and down, going wide. Santana feels a sudden burst of pride. She’s always had a pretty decent body – and a damn good rack, thanks to her Daddy’s credit card – but since she started at Coyote Ugly, near enough getting a workout every night, she’s hit a whole new level of hot, if she does say so herself. Rachel draws closer, kneeling in front of Santana, eyes agleam with curiosity.

“C'mere, I won't bite … unless you ask nicely,” she laughs at her own lame joke.

Santana takes Rachel's hand, covering her breast, keeping it there a moment. "Oh," is all Rachel says, looking at her chest instead of her face like the rest of the population, staring until Santana moves their joined hands up, and squeezes.

“They're ... it's ... wow.”

She laughs, because, well, she's just rendered Rachel Berry incoherent thanks to three grand of California fake boobs, and that reaction is somehow, very much worth it.

“Yeah.”

She drops her hand away; lets Rachel have her little moment, before drawing closer still, and kissing her. They're just brushing their lips together really; it's a distraction. Her hands drift down, skimming under Rachel’s pyjama top, meeting with her surprisingly taut stomach, muscles contracting with every touch as she pushes material higher, stopping short of touching Rachel’s breasts. Rachel practically whimpers when she stops.

“Wait …” Santana murmurs, reaching for the buttons on Rachel’s top, and undoing them, teasingly slow, one by one.

Rachel lets out a shuddering breath as Santana pushes the material aside, pressing kisses to Rachel’s shoulders in turn, hand skating down the valley between her breasts, until Santana’s palming them, thumb flicking over Rachel’s already stiff nipples. She dips her head, latching on to one of them, taking it into her mouth and sucking, gently at first, smiling against Rachel's skin at the sharp but delicious gasp that emerges as a result. Santana feels Rachel arch into the contact, craving more, so she gives, switching her mouth to the other breast, swirling and sucking, massaging the one she’s not kissing.

“Is this what you wanted?”

A barely audible “yes,” slips from Rachel’s mouth, and there’s a hand in Santana’s hair, nails scratching lightly at her scalp.

Santana glances up, seeing that Rachel’s head is thrown back, eyes closed. It’s just about the hottest thing she’s ever seen.

"You like that?” she asks, playing coy, all batting lashes.

“So much,” is Rachel’s breathy reply, voice laced with want.

If a guy had just said that, Santana would laugh, but because it's not, she thinks it’s sweet instead, finding herself lamenting the fact that girls go through life never knowing how good it can get. Arrogant, maybe, but it doesn’t make it any less true.

“Good,” she begins. “Well, let's see how you like this.”

Santana smiles mischievously, surging forward and pushing Rachel back against the pillows. Her smile widens when a squeal of laughter escapes Rachel – a naughty little schoolgirl giggle – and she swallows it down with a kiss; fierce and open-mouthed, like the ones that started this little journey. As they kiss, Santana’s hands smooth down Rachel’s sides, tracing her hipbones, and surprisingly taut stomach muscles. She can't resist sliding down and dipping her head to kiss her there, gentle and light. The closer Santana gets to those shorts, the sharper Rachel's breath hitches. Once they’re gone, and Santana’s mouth and tongue are delving deep, licking and sucking at Rachel’s hot, wet folds, decidedly _less_ gentle; Rachel’s barely breathing at all, hips rising to meet her mouth and begging for more, the easier Santana’s decision becomes.

Sleeping in Rachel Berry’s bed is definitely _not_ a temporary thing.


End file.
